


Became Friends As We Learned How To Fight

by why_me_why_not



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_me_why_not/pseuds/why_me_why_not
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray doesn't adjust easily to civilian life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Became Friends As We Learned How To Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, idek. I wanted fic and couldn't find it and accidentally wrote it myself? I blame asimplechord for taking advantage of the fact I was laying on her couch and suffering from COL and a concussion. She made me watch GK, yall, knowing I would get hooked. Apparently it was payback for bandom. A few other people saw this in email, but I never actually posted it because I'm me. So you can blame swear_jar for me actually posting it. And blame me for any mistakes and inaccuracies. It was betad asimplechord, and she probably told me to fix things and I didn't. Title comes from Rise Against's Hero of War.

The dreams are worse than actually living through the shit, Ray thinks, snagging himself another beer from the fridge and wondering if it was maybe a good thing that he had been living on a diet of Ripped Fuel, instant coffee, and adrenaline while they were in Iraq. He's pretty sure if he had been having these dreams then, they would have fucked with his head more than anything the Hajjis or command had done.

In his dream, they're back in Al Gharraf, pushing through in the shamal and taking enemy fire from all sides. Only, when the Hajjis drop the wires and Walt hits the roof of the Humvee, it becomes a clusterfuck. Walt isn't there to give him directions as to whether or not he's clear, Rolling Stone is pushing Walt's feets up to give him a little extra leverage against the wires, and Brad and Trombley are covering their asses. And when Ray tries to back up, there's the bump of contact when he hits the humvee behind them.

"Hitman Two-One Alpha, this is Hitman Two Actual. Why are we stopped?"

"This is Hitman Two-One Alpha," Brad responds, voice way calmer than anything going through Ray's head. "Hasser's caught in downed wires. We need to back up."

Nobody moves, and Ray smacks the steering wheel in frustration. "Lilley, back the fuck up!" he barks into the radio. They don't have time for niceties.

"Can't, Gunny's right on my ass."

The radio echoes with similar responses from other drivers, and Ray guns it in reverse, ignoring the scrape of metal and the whining of the engine and the cursing of his fellow Marines over the comms. They're finally back far enough that Walt should be clear to pull free from the wires, but he doesn't move.

In Ray's dreams, Walt is pale and still, or he's having trouble catching his breath, or he's fucking _dead_ because of Ray's fucking driving.

Ray knows none of these things happened. He _knows_ that it wasn't a big deal, that Walt wasn't hurt, that he got right back up and was back in position before Ray even slowed the humvee. He didn't even get Doc Bryan to check him out, didn't even mention the incident afterward.

In Ray's dreams, there are marks across Walt's throat, raised and red and making Ray feel guilty all over again.

Ray doesn't remember if there were marks on Walt after it happened. They were all filthy, so he probably wouldn't even have been able to see them if there were.

Ray is still thinking about it when Brad calls to check on him. Ray isn't sure why everyone thought he was the wife in their relationship. Brad's the one _still_ mother-henning every single one of them.

Brad is in the middle of a story about a girl with a dog, or maybe a dog with a girly name, or possibly a girl who liked it doggie style - sometimes Ray lets his imagination twist the words coming out of Brad's mouth into something more interesting in his mind, he can't help it - but Ray is distracted.

"Hey, Brad," Ray interrupts. "Do you remember that day Hasser got caught in the wires?"

Brad is silent for a moment. "I don't know why I fucking bother calling you when you don't listen to a word I say."

"Fuck you, I'm listening!" Ray lies. "Besides, you love me. Do you remember?"

"I don't remember ever loving you." Now Brad's the one lying; Ray knows Brad loves him. "But I do remember the incident with Walt."

"Did he have marks on his neck after it happened?"

"If this is some kinky fantasy of yours, I don't want to know."

Ray doesn't point out that Brad is kinkier than he'll ever be, doesn't tease him about some of the things he knows (things he never _wanted_ to know but knows anyway) about Brad's kinky fantasies and even kinkier sexcapades. Apparently this is Brad's cue to turn serious.

"Are you okay, Ray? Is this part of some post-stress reaction? I can call Nate; he knows a guy..."

" _No_." Ray puts as much emphasis into the word as he can. He doesn't need some retarded fucking shrink analyzing his dreams and helping him with his fucked up subconscious way of dealing with things. That's what alcohol and friends are for. "I'm just having these dreams, and I can't remember that part."

"Walt's fine." Brad's using his calm, soothing voice, like he's talking to a frightened child or a skittish animal or something. It should probably piss Ray off - he doesn't need to be handled with kid gloves - but it really just makes him regret bringing it up because now Brad's going to _worry_. And he's probably going to tell Nate, like Nate has any lingering control over Ray. "We're all fine," Brad's saying. "We all came home. Me, Walt, Trombley, the reporter from Rolling Stone. Your driving kept us safe and got us through. You did good, Ray."

"Of course I did! I'm a bad ass motherfucker!"

Brad doesn't let himself be swayed off track. "Seriously, Ray, if you need to talk to someone..."

"I'm fine," Ray cuts in. "Go back to your story."

Brad sighs but goes back to his story, which actually is about a girl with a dog. She apparently also had pretty green eyes that no doubt reminded Brad of Nate, because he can't stop commenting on them. Ray wonders when Brad's going to get a clue. Talk about special-olympic gay.

Ray isn't surprised when his phone rings the next morning and the display flashes up "LT." He's not answering that shit. He's even less surprised when he checks his voice mail and gets Nate's worried-but-serious voice telling him that PTSD is nothing to play with, and that it wouldn't make anyone think less of him if he talked to the post-stress therapist. Ray erases the message without taking down the name and number Nate gives him.

The dreams aren't always about Walt. Fuck knows Ray saw - and did – plenty of other shit to give himself nightmares over. Most of the time, though, they are. If Ray were into retarded psychoanalytical bullshit, he'd say it was because Walt was pretty much a baby in their Humvee family unit – which, okay, Trombley kinda was too, but Trombley was also a _fucking psycho_ – and he felt responsible for him. Ray doesn't believe in that sort of thing, though.

He also doesn't believe in calling Walt directly, even though he often wants to. He just needs to know that Walt's okay, that he came back from Iraq in one piece. He settles for slipping it into his conversations with Brad and Nate, both of whom have been calling more often. Ray's not exactly a master of subtlety, but they don't call him on it, just tell him what Walt's up to these days. In return, he doesn't point out that if the two of them would work their shit out already, they wouldn't have so much time to waste worrying over him.

They do, however, book him a plane ticket to go visit Walt – the email with the itinerary information says "go see for yourself" – and neither of them answers the phone when he calls to bitch them out. Ray knows if he doesn't go, one of them is going to show up at his place, or send Walt, and Ray really doesn't want anyone in his dingy-ass apartment, so he throws a couple changes of clothes in a bag and goes. He probably doesn't even need that since he'll only be gone for a weekend, but he doesn't think Walt's girlfriend would appreciate him lounging around her apartment for three days in the same clothes.

And it is her apartment. Apparently in between writing flowery love letters to Walt and taking college courses and learning to be a responsible adult, she was playing homemaker so Walt would have someplace to actually come _home_ to. Walt had sent pictures; it looked more girly than Fruity Rudy's new house. Walt looked completely awkward and out of place, but he was happy and that was all that mattered.

The airport is an adventure of sorts. There are too many people, too much open space, too much noise. Ray feels underdressed in his civvies, and exposed without having someone there to cover his six. Or his three, or his nine, or any other number on his damn clock.

Ray somehow ends up seated next to a family of Middle Eastern descent and makes a bit of a scene insisting on a new seat. Everyone on the plane probably thinks he's a racist asshole, but he really can't bring himself to trust them. Hmm. Maybe he is a racist asshole.

Walt's waiting for him at the airport. They stand there for a moment with mirrored goofy grins before hugging. Ray would be lying if he said he didn't feel better having tangible proof of just how okay Walt is.

They pick up pizza on their way back to the apartment. Walt's girlfriend gives Ray an awkward but seemingly heartfelt hug before stealing a plate of pizza and sneaking off to the bedroom. In Ray's head, she's always 'Walt's girlfriend'. It's easier to relate things that way.

Ray and Walt spend the evening recounting the not-so-bad parts of their time together. There are more of them than Ray remembers.

After Walt goes to bed, Ray stretches out on the too-pretty-to-be-comfortable couch and watches infomercials with the sound muted. He dozes off about the time the sun comes up and wakes up a few hours later when Walt's girlfriend is leaving for work. She waits tables at a restaurant down the road a ways, and promises to bring them dinner after her shift.

The day is filled with video games, shit like Marble Madness on Walt's old Nintendo. No killing involved.

Walt talks about his girlfriend wanting a baby, and how he's trying to talk her into getting a puppy instead, and how his downstairs neighbor keeps taking his parking space, and about his girlfriend's car needing new tires. Ray has nothing to offer in return. He's a little thrown off by the _normalcy_ of Walt's side of the conversation.

The two of them change the oil in Walt's truck in the parking lot of the complex, singing along with the radio and revising the words to most of the songs. It feels more like Ray's version of normal, even if he's a little worried that the Chinese grandmother who lives upstairs from Walt is going to come after them with the broom the way she chased the kids away from the stoop.

Walt insists on showers and straightening up the apartment before his girlfriend gets home. It's hard, but Ray resists giving him shit about how whipped he is. Well, Ray doesn't say anything more about it once she gets home anyway.

The weird-normal feeling returns that evening as the three of them hang out and watch movies. Walt's girlfriend seems to be on a mission to catch Walt up on all the movies he missed, whether he wants to see them or not. She's on the couch with her feet in Walt's lap, and Walt's absentmindedly rubbing her feet. From his spot in the recliner, Ray catches his eye and mouths 'whipped,' but he's a little jealous. After he came home, his own girlfriend had waited until after what turned out to be a pity-fuck to tell him she didn't think they were going to work out.

Ray falls asleep in the recliner, moving to the couch after Walt shakes him when he and his girl are going to bed. He dreams of Baghdad, of crowds of people swarming the Humvee. They're rocking it, like something out of a video from the LA riots, and they're completely ignoring Brad's demands to “step away from the vehicle”. Brad's too concerned about the kids in the crowd to shoot the bastards and scare them off, Trombley's itchy trigger finger is being kept in check by Brad's orders, and Nate's yelling at them via the comms to get the fuck out of there.

Someone grabs the front of Ray's shirt and he takes a swing at whoever it is.

And hits Walt.

Ray is abruptly awake, breathing hard and trying to focus on the fact that Walt's saying something to him. When he finally sorts it out, he realizes it's variations of "Hey, man, it's me. Ray, it's Walt; you're fine."

"Fuck." Ray slips off the couch onto the floor. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"Yeah," Walt agrees, stretching out in the tiny bit of space between Ray and the coffee table. He reaches for Ray's shirt and pulls him down. "Is this one of the dreams Brad and Nate were talking about?"

"No." It's not exactly a lie. Walt wasn't dead in this dream.

Walt sighs. "Go to sleep, Ray."

It reminds Ray of their ranger graves, of enclosed space and darkness and focusing on the sound of the other men's breathing.

It's the best night of sleep he's had since he came home.

Walt doesn't mention it the next morning, just gets up and putters around the kitchen. He brings Ray a cracked mug with hearts and teddy bears on the side, but it's filled with hot coffee so Ray isn't going to complain. Ray climbs up on the couch and tries to wake up while Walt heads for the bedroom. Ray tries to ignore the fact that there is obviously an argument going on behind that closed door, but it's hard to do, especially when they start raising their voices.

"You slept on the living room floor with him instead of coming back to bed! How do you think that makes me feel?"

"He's my best friend!"

" _I'm_ supposed to be your best friend! I feel like I barely know you since you've come home."

They get quieter, and. Ray can only here the rushed cadence of their voices as they continue. He jumps when the bedroom door slams and Walt walks out with his running shoes in his hand. He's changed into a tshirt and shorts, and Ray sneaks off to do the same thing before Walt has a chance to say anything. A run will do them both a world of good.

They fall into rhythm beside each other, and Ray wonders why he hasn't been doing this at home. He's forgotten how running clears his head.

He's not sure where they're going, but he assumes Walt has a destination in mind. They finally stop at a bench in the backside of the park a couple miles from the apartment, bending over with their hands on their knees and trying to catch their breath before dropping onto the bench.

Now that they're in the sunshine and he's actually looking, Ray notices there's a bruise on Walt's face, slightly to the side and just above his eye. The coffee in his stomach threatens to make a reappearance and he has to take a couple deep breaths before he says, "I didn't mean to hit you."

Walt raises a hand to rub his fingers over the spot. "I know. It's not a big deal, though," he smirks, "since you hit like a girl anyway."

Ray shakes his head and doesn't rise to the bait. He thinks maybe coming here was a bad idea. "And now you two are fighting."

Walt looks away, staring at something on the other side of the park. "Nah, we were already fighting. She likes to pretend that everything's okay, that we're the same as we were before I left for Iraq. But I'm not the same. I _can't_ be." He turns, suddenly focusing on Ray with an intensity that borders on scary. "I've killed people, Ray. She doesn't get that. I don't tell her that. But I'm not sure how to reconcile that fact with the life we have together."

Ray obviously doesn't either. Look at the clusterfuck that is currently his life. "Nate apparently has a contact, someone good at dealing with post-stress. You should call him."

Walt laughs. "Yeah, because _I'm_ the one having nightmares and abusing my friends."

Ray mock-growls. "I'll show you abuse!" He tackles Walt and they tip the bench over, landing on the grass in a sprawling mess. They ignore the disapproving looks aimed at them, two grown men wrestling and laughing on the ground in the middle of a public park.

Ray takes Walt and his girlfriend out for dinner to say thanks before they drop him off at the airport. He hugs them both, and he bites his tongue to keep from telling her to take care of Walt. He's pretty sure her response would be that Walt's been hers to take care of since before he even met Ray.

The trouble Ray left at home is waiting patiently for his return.

He gets into a couple bar fights before deciding he's better off drinking at home. He can kick some ass on his own, but it's not the same without someone having his back. At least drinking himself into a stupor dulls the dreams, gives them a hazy feeling around the edges so they feel less real. Most of the time.

He starts ignoring his phone, which is probably a mistake, but he's so fucking tired of everyone calling to ask if he's okay. He's totally okay. Fantastic, even. He's Joshua Ray Person, fucking Recon Marine.

He fucks up a job interview when he jumps to the ground in response to the backfire of a passing car. He loses another opportunity when he fails the personality test. They probably think he's a fucking psycho.

He gets an email about the unit deploying again, and spends the evening ruminating with a bottle of Jack. He's pretty sure his words are slurred with something other than excitement at the prospect of getting shot at when he calls Gunny Wynn and tells him he's going to reenlist. Gunny tells him to go to bed and stay a civilian. Well, his words are quite a bit more colorful than that, but that's what they boil down to.

Ray goes to bed, but he sleeps fitfully. He's really not sure he remembers _how_ to be a civilian.

He gets a ticket for forgetting to turn his headlights on when he's coming home one night, and he gets banned from Walmart after the incident with the kid shooting him with a Nerf gun.

Things are maybe a little fucked up.

He's lying in the dirt underneath his truck, not really doing anything other than hiding from the world, when a familiar pair of shoes appears in his line of vision.

"You're not a very good Recon Marine if you can't even manage to sneak up on me!" he calls out.

"I wasn't trying to sneak." The shrug is practically audible in Walt's tone. "Besides, you aren't a very good friend."

Ray slides out from under the truck. "Fuck you, I'm an awesome friend."

Walt looks down at him, clearly disagreeing. "And that's why I had to find my own way here from the airport?" He reaches down to pull Ray to his feet and studies him critically. "When was the last time you ate?"

Ray can't exactly remember, but he's trying to think of a good substitution for that little admission. "I don't know." Damn it. His tongue is a filthy traitor.

He expects Walt to sigh at him, that 'what the hell are we going to do with you' sound he remembers from that night at Walt's apartment. He doesn't, though, just ushers Ray into the apartment and starts rummaging through his cabinets. He laughs as he produces two cans of ravioli and waggles them in Ray's direction.

"You gonna need a bib for this, or will it be enough that you're gonna shower after you eat?"

Ray realizes his hungry halfway through the first can and finishes them both in record time. He is decidedly less sauce-covered than last time, but he also realizes that he fucking _stinks_. Shower it is, then.

Walt puts clean sheets on the bed before Ray gets out, and Ray pulls on his last pair of clean boxers and a tshirt before collapsing across it. Purely for the sake of Walt's innocent sensibilities, of course.

He doesn't have to ask. Walt crawls up on the bed across from him, just far enough away to be out of reach but close enough that Ray's confident he'll be woken from any nightmare.

He's not sure how long he sleeps, but it's dark out when he wakes up and Walt's snoring softly on the bed beside him.

Ray takes the phone outside so he won't wake Walt and kicks his foot anxiously against the brick wall as he waits for the ringing on the other side of the line to be replaced with a voice.

"Hello?" The answer is sleep-slurred and Ray almost feels bad for not checking the clock first.

"Lieutenant Fick?"

"Corporal Person," comes the reply, and Ray can't tell if it's meant to be mocking or not.

He tries again, "Nate?"

"Ray," Nate's tone is less serious, friendlier this time around. "Do you know what time it is? Are you okay?"

Ray laughs. "No and no. But I hear you know a guy."


End file.
